by Alan Osi
“There is no name.”
“You and your no-name bullshit anonymity fetish. How many people you got?”
“We are legion.”
“Okay, guess what? Because of your no-name routine, as of right now you’re going in the hole. You know what the hole is, your highness? It’s the place that makes people crazy, crazier than you even, and you’re going to rot in it until you decide to answer my simple, nice, and well fucking-phrased questions. Shelly! Get in here and escort Saint John Doe to the nearest solitary confinement cell.”
“You cannot stop us with force or threats. We are God’s chosen. One day, you will see.”
“I’ll see you in a few days, nutwad. To you, they’ll pass slower than years. Pleasant dreams.”
84. MAXWELL
I made my voice husky and weak. “Samantha,” I said. “It’s me, Max.” If Samantha, my day editor/supervisor, didn’t believe me, then I would be FUBAR. So I was nervous about this call, which I handled by telling myself that after pretending to be a gangster, this was small potatoes. This helped a bit.
“Max,” Samantha said, “Glad to hear from you.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I’m running a temperature of 103. And I wanted to get up earlier. But, I kept passing out before I could get out of bed. I spent most of yesterday throwing up.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said, dryly. “We really need you here.”
“Listen, Samantha, I know. The good news is I saw the doctor. I got antibiotics now, and I’ll be in as soon as humanly possible. Promise.”
“Make sure you do that,” she said and hung up.
I wondered, for a moment, about the wisdom of this plan again. When, or if, I submitted my article to The New York Globe, it would be clear to everyone I’d not been on death’s door, like I claimed. Would they reward my drive or punish my duplicity? A trill of fear went through me. Perhaps I let my ambition carry me away. But, almost a week into my master plan, it was late to start having doubts. I could only go forward.
Moondust would take me to a new level or cost me everything. It already cost me my girlfriend. Justine and I were over. And my job, judging by Samantha’s tone, was on the chopping block, now. But, it was a story, the kind of story men like me waited their whole lives for and never found. The kind of story that made careers. I needed to keep going.
My paper would accept what I’d done, when they saw my copy. As long as my writing was crisp, severe, and marble smooth.
Writing was my job, today. Same as yesterday. Tonight, I’d be meeting with the stoner queen, Hailey, to observe moondust production. That would be an integral part of my article as well as their party would be, the one happening Sunday. But, while I didn’t have all the pieces in place yet, I was developing the ones I did have. I could finish the lion’s share of the rough draft today, I figured, and add the final two pieces after they happened, sort of a plug-n-play approach.
Suddenly, something struck me—a major oversight—and I swore. I needed to go to the police. My article lacked a key angle. How did law enforcement plan to handle this situation? To what degree did they perceive moondust as a threat to society? I needed quotations from a sergeant or a captain, expert in the innate criminology of drug-behavior, someone who understood how these scenarios played out.
The possibilities excited me. But, I didn’t need to rush. I would continue with my plans for the day, and interview the police tomorrow.
I flicked on my computer and took out my notes. First, I would write up explanations of what my chemist Peter told me, and what the other chemistry guy confirmed. “Whatever it’s obvious similarities to hallucinogens such as LSD,” I began, “moondust is no ordinary drug. Indeed, it can be called a scientific revolution in a powder.”
I liked this opening. It had pop, energy, and communicated the fundamental gravitas of my subject.
While I was rereading the notes a third time, something stood out. Heisenberg’s principle—the idea that the observer changes the observed: After being observed, a thing is, on some level, irrevocably altered. I remembered the basic idea from college. What struck me was this: the uncertainty principle was playing out in my life, and to an unsettling degree. I, a reporter, a professional observer, never previously thought about how I would affect the development of moondust as social phenomenon. But, I would, I had.
I told Percival about its inability to be classified, and therefore it’s innate legality. Using a fake accent and gangster identity, I convinced some random thugs looking for moondust to ignore Percival, throwing that messenger kook under the bus to do so. And tomorrow I would alert the police to moondust’s existence, bringing them into opposition with Percival et al., who due to my prior intervention would be a lot easier to find. Eventually, the words I would write would introduce this phenomenon to the world.
I was definitely changing things, when it came to moondust.
But hadn’t Cronkite changed the Vietnam War? This was the role we played, probably the only thing I held sacred. I had a duty to inform, and what happened after I informed—or even in the process of informing—needed to be secondary. As long as I upheld the ideals of journalism by behaving ethically, I felt no guilt.
I pushed these thoughts away and wrote my heart out.
85. HAILEY
The closer the time came, the more I dreaded it. I felt sure it was going to suck. Totally the wrong attitude to take into moondust-making. But, unlike before when sour faces might have wrecked things, popping some choice mushroom caps for their pretty euphoria would not be smart at all, or even be possible. Those little beauties were hard to come by.
Of course, I had other substances to abuse. But, as I would be observed by Percival’s reporter Max, there wasn’t much point. Percival suggested Max was judgmental about consciousness-shifting in general, so I tended to think any elevation in me would be balanced out by a descent in his mood.
There was always alcohol. But, I felt pretty sure he’d misunderstand if I tried to get him drunk. So we’d both be stone sober for this one.
I was quickly souring on this brilliant idea of mine. Would he be able to be here while I made moondust and not ruin it? Hard to say. And what would happen if the batch didn’t take? I reminded myself it was a no-lose scenario, aside from the fact that the reporter now knew where I lived. Percival and Mark would be making a very, very large batch elsewhere in the city, likely at Mark’s place. We’d have the necessary amount of moondust either way. And if it didn’t take, yeah, I would look silly in front of the guy. But, so what? Did it matter?
It did, actually. We needed him to take the heat off of us.
I had some time before he showed up, so I threw caution to the wind and rolled a little something-something while watching television. Thanks to moondust, I reached a category of rare wealth in the city—people who could afford cable and who splurged on getting it legally. I turned to the Femme network. Their made-for-television movies were kind of hilarious. But, only when good and stoned. Sober, they were totally unwatchable.
I couldn’t have asked for better recreation tonight. I watched the melodramatic tale of a thirty-something woman with the perfect husband and perfect life and perfect kids and perfect dog and perfect hair, in the process of working on the novel she finally found time to write, while her kids attended school and the maid did the housekeeping. Tragically, while doing online research, she found posted video evidence her husband lived a double life; he was the youngest partner of his law-firm by day. But, often, while pretending to work late, he really dressed in a slutty French maid outfit and delivered erotic man-cakes, singing modified show-tunes about male-on-male fellatio. That’s right: he was a gay singing telegram.
It had me in hysterics. I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t complain about the noise.
By the end of it, I felt pretty good. But, I still dreaded dealing with Max. When I turned the television off, my mind switched gears, from happy fun-time to the gray future awaiting me when the reporter showed up.
I sighed, and then I started preparing—gathering the things I would need. The ten gallon drum waited on the roof, perfect for burning things, ready for another use. I emptied and dried the plastic dishpan that lived in my sink, then put the pile of old newspapers I collected since in the dishpan. I grabbed my sifter, and put it on top of the papers. Of course, I already had a lighter in my pocket. I went to my bedroom closet, where I kept the moondust, and pulled a little baggie out.
I took a moment to reconsider about the alcohol. Maybe if I reminded him about how we weren’t going to be an item—unless Ragnarok came and we were the two left—I could risk drinking with the guy. It probably wouldn’t make anything worse. And I did have a bottle of vodka in the kitchen.
I flashed back to the reporter’s behavior at brunch—his eyes, lecherous, locked on the girls. Because he was a chest-gazer, I decided the form-fitting shirt I wore wouldn’t do, went into the closet, and found an old, voluminous sweatshirt with many paint-stains. Having to hide myself this way felt wrong. Part of me didn’t want to do it, likely my stubbornness. If the choice was changing or having some creep’s eyes locked on my jumblies, I could make an exception to the general rule—dress for yourself, never for them. Besides, it would be cold out there. I may need a jacket, too.
I went out to my fire escape to have a cigarette. After I lit up my phone rang, which made my heart sink. But, a false alarm. Cameron, my bed-buddy, called. I didn’t want to talk to him right then, so I hit ignore and put the phone back in my pocket.
I smoked my cigarette nice and slow, staring up at the full moon peeking out from the clouds. I thought of a song I loved, because the lyrics called the moon a light-bulb breaking. A beautiful image, I always thought.
When I finished the cigarette, I climbed back inside through my window. Then Maxwell called.
“Hey,” I said when I answered. “Are you here?”
“Yeah. Can you buzz me in? I tried your intercom, but…”
“Yeah, the buzzer’s broken, I’ll have to come down. Give me a second.”
I needed to pee, I realized. Better to now, better not to leave him alone in my place. I pegged him for the snooping type. So I used the facilities, and when finished, I threw on my Chuck Taylor’s and went downstairs.
At the front door, the reporter stood in a three-quarter length pea coat, leaning on the railing as if trying to be provocative.
“What took you so long?” he said.
“Well, first I had to put on my shoes, then I had to walk down the hall, and then the stairs.”
“Clever,” he said in a nasty tone, following me back up to my apartment. “Do you and your crew make improv classes mandatory or something? I’ve never heard such sharp humor.”
The snark infuriated me, I’d never been a fan of it. So I stopped climbing and turned on him. But, I decided not to say the first thing that popped into my head.
“You should remember, I’m doing you a favor here, chuckles. And you should act like it.”
“Chuckles?”
“Do you want to go home?”
“No. I want to go to your apartment and watch you make magic.”
Because of his tone, I pictured myself hitting him. My foot, stomping his face, which from a few stairs above would be easy. His high-pitched squeal as he tumbled, end over end, down the stairs.
Something else I learned from doing moondust, an obvious truth mostly ignored: If you went into a situation believing it would suck, it was far more likely to suck. The inner and the outer worlds were connected by actions we know we took, such as, facial expressions we made, our tone of voice, thoughts which manifested in our behavior—all unrecognized. Had I helped make this situation shitty more than I realized?
If it continued like this, not only would the moondust not take but also I might end up in prison for pushing the chump off my rooftop. It could happen.
I took a deep breath—exhaled, inhaled. Called on various learned calming techniques.
“I want to remind you, if you flirt with me, I’m going to murder you.”
“You think that was flirting?”
“Okay, so you’re always like that. Try not to be. This is a delicate operation.”
We didn’t talk the rest of the way up the stairs. I tried to find happy thoughts and think them. It mattered.
86. MAXWELL
I set my blackberry’s alarm for ten at night, which gave plenty of time to arrive at Hailey’s apartment before eleven o’clock. I was busy writing and when the alarm went off, I felt as if I’d been pulled from a dream. The world around me had faded into nonexistence.
What I’d written was great. I could feel it. All of my gambles were going to pay off. I could go freelance; after the name recognition skyrocketed from breaking the moondust story, getting top-flight rates for my stories would be a walk in the park.
Just to make sure, I took a quick second to skim over some of what I’d penned. I started with a description of Percival:
He sits in a coffee shop, one leg carelessly propped up on a neighboring chair, in an olive colored military-style hat, jeans, and a band T-shirt. His casual manner and simple clothing belie the threat he is to the established order of things in the United States, and perhaps the world. A threat he is well aware of and even flaunts. “You should know your lives are all dreams,” he says, speaking directly to the American people, with a casual disrespect stemming from an innate sense of superiority. “Do I intend to wake you up? What I intend doesn’t matter at all. Moondust is the truth.”
Reading it, I couldn’t help, but to smile. I’d been so worried while interviewing Beaver, who turned out to be named Percival. But, with a little ingenuity and elbow grease, it made for great stuff. What I’d written was sensational. But, still grounded in truth: Percival understood selling moondust made him a danger to society, and he loved that. It’s what made him a compelling subject.
Because I was working, time flew by, and soon I needed to leave for my appointment with Hailey. She was going to show me how they made moondust. If the opportunity presented, I also planned to find out from whom and how they received the substance in the first place. Percival told me he didn’t remember, due to a wild LSD trip. I didn’t believe him. If I played my cards right, perhaps I could get the story out of this Hailey person.
So I laced up my shoes and my coat, and out I went. I took the subway, the degree of uncertainty in my future suggested I shut down spending for a while. Nothing eventful happened. But, it was a long ride.
I ascended out of the tunnel to a street in a super shady neighborhood. The buildings seemed closer together, the streetlights dim. Dangerous people hung out in front of bodegas, speaking in languages I couldn’t hope to discern. Worse, I wasn’t very far away from a housing complex, and only two things happened in housing complexes: crimes and roach infestations.
I put my head down and walked fast, thinking if a hipster-girl like Hailey managed to live here without getting robbed on a regular basis, it was probably safe for me to walk down the street. Besides, in New York, just because a neighborhood looked dangerous as hell doesn’t mean it was. You could be sure with housing projects. But, luckily I headed away from those.
I made it to her front door. As per her instructions, I called.
“Hey,” she said when she picked up. “You here?”
“Can you come down and let me in, please?”
“I’ll be down in a second,” she said.
But she wasn’t. Meanwhile, her shady looking neighbors kept checking me out. One of them said something and they all laughed. I did a mental calculation of how much money I carried. Not much. But, my coat was expensive and looked it. I needed to stay loose, so I leaned up against the railing, humming aimlessly as a few minutes ticked by. Finally, she came strolling down the stairs, like nothing was wrong at all.
“What took you so long?” I said when she opened the door. In response, her eyes squinted, while her top lip pulled away from the bottom, showing her left incisor in a ma
gnificent sneer. “Well, first I had to walk down the hall. Then I had to go down the stairs.”
“So clever. Do you and your crew make improv classes mandatory?” I said.
“Screw you,” she spat, wheeling on me. “You need to remember I’m doing you a favor here, Chuckles. Start acting like you know it.”
“Chuckles?”
“Do you want to go home?”
I looked in her eyes, and she meant it. She was so touchy, she wanted to send me packing for an innocuous response to her psychopathy. She expected me to take her crap and smile.
I’d be extra nice, butter her up a bit. Maybe it would keep her from breathing fire all night. “I want to go up to your place and watch you make magic,” I said. “Shall we?”
“Let me remind you that if you try to flirt with me, I’ll murder you,” she said.
“You think that was flirting?”
She took a deep breath. “Okay, so you’re always like that. Try not to be.” Mercifully she continued up the stairs.
This was going to be a long night. I tried to give her the benefit of doubt. Must be that time of the month for her.
She opened the door. But, stopped in the doorway. “Actually,” she said, “Wait here. We’re going to the roof-top. I’m grabbing some supplies you can help me get up there.”
“We’re doing this outside?” I said, surprised.
“Yeah. That is where most rooftops are. Right?”
“Excuse me for expecting drug-making to be clandestine.”
“When in over their heads, wise men know enough to let expectations go”—this was the fortune-cookie nonsense of her reply, and then she disappeared into her apartment.
A really long night.
True to form, she took forever, so I sat on the stairs while I waited, playing on my blackberry. When she reappeared, she had glassy, unfocused eyes, carrying a strainer and a wash-pan filled with newspaper.
“Listen,” I said, trying to be as diplomatic as possible, “it would help me if I could pull out my digital recorder when we get up there. No video, audio only. That way if you say anything quotable, I have it on record. I want to respect your privacy. What do you say?”